THE VOYAGE OF THE SLEET
_The Scene._--The boat-house landing and the river thereabouts.
_The Time._--Four-thirty of the following Saturday afternoon.
_Characters._--Dick, Trevor, Carl, Stewart, an ice-yacht,
chorus of boys on skates.
_Chorus_: “Heave-o! Now, all together! Heave!”
_Carl_: “Hang the thing, anyhow! What’s the matter with it?”
_Dick_: “Well, since you know all about the art of ice-sailing, it
strikes me that you ought to be able to raise a little old pillow-sham
of a sail like that!”
_Trevor_: “Let’s pull on this rope and see what happens.”
_Chorus_: “How’d you like to be the ice-yachtsmen?”
_Carl_: “That’s the rope! Take hold here, fellows!”
_Chorus_: “Everybody shove!”
_Carl_: “There she goes! Make a hitch there, Dick! Jump on, quick!
_Whoa!_”
_Chorus_: “A-ah!”
The boat catches the wind, starts suddenly up-stream, as suddenly
changes its mind, veers about, rams the landing, backs off, charges a
group of boys on skates, and then stands motionless with its head into
the wind and laughs so that its sail flaps.
It is now discovered that there is room on the yacht for but three
fellows at the most, and every one save Carl begs to be allowed to
sacrifice his pleasure and remain at home. The choice falls to Stewart,
and he joins the chorus with a countenance eloquent of relief. Carl,
Dick, and Trevor huddle together on the cockpit, and a portion of the
chorus shoves the yacht’s head about. The sail fills, and the yacht
glides off up-stream in a strong breeze, to the jeers and biting
sarcasms of the chorus, many of whom pretend to weep agonizedly into
their handkerchiefs.
The Sleet had been delivered and paid for the preceding Wednesday. She
was an old-style boat with a length of sixteen feet and a sail area
altogether too small for her size. A new coat of brilliant--and as yet
but partly dried--crimson paint hid a multitude of weak places. The
cockpit, upholstered with a piece of faded red carpet, was barely large
enough to allow the three boys to huddle onto it.
The boat-house and landing, Stewart, and the contemptuous chorus were
soon left behind, and The Sleet gained momentum every second. Carl
held the tiller, and Dick and Trevor held their breaths. The wind was
straight abaft, but the cold made the boys huddle closely together to
protect their faces. The academy buildings faded from sight in the
gray afternoon haze, and the river stretched cold and bleak before them.
“How fast are we going?” asked Dick.
“I don’t know; pretty well, I guess,” answered Carl. “Fine, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” replied Dick, doubtfully. “Only I don’t think we ought to go far
away, you know; eh, Trevor?”
“Oh, let her rip. What’s the difference whether we get killed here or
farther up? Pull open the throttle, Carl!”
“Look out for your heads, then; I’m going to swing her across to the
other side.”
Carl moved the tiller to starboard, and the yacht tacked toward the
farther shore at a truly alarming speed.
“She’s going awful fast, Carl,” gasped Dick.
“Pshaw! this is nothing. If there was only a decent wind----”
“Wow, Carl, she’s keeling over!” yelled Trevor.
The starboard runner was a whole foot above the ice. The sensation was
distinctly unpleasant, and even Carl seemed not to relish it.
“Let’s see,” he muttered. “Oh, yes.” He moved the tiller cautiously,
and the flighty runner settled down upon the surface once more.
“That’s better,” gasped Dick. “Let’s turn here and go back, fellows,”
he suggested with a fine semblance of carelessness. Carl grinned.
“Dick’s scared silly, Trevor,” he shouted.
“Well, so’m I,” answered Trevor. “And so are you, only you won’t let
on. The bally thing goes so fast that it makes you feel funny inside
you. But it _is_ fun, Carl. _Look out for the bank!_”
Over went the tiller again, and the yacht started on the starboard
tack. The hills on either side were flying past, and now and then a
cluster of houses were seen dimly for an instant, and then was lost to
sight.
“What’s that ahead there?” asked Dick. Carl raised his eyes and
followed the other’s gaze.
“Ice-yacht,” he answered. “Perhaps they’ll race us.”
“Perhaps they will,” muttered Trevor, “but if you go any faster when
you race, I’ll get off the blooming thing and walk.”
“Bully boy!” cried Carl. “Feeling better, aren’t you?”
“Well, I fancy I’ve got some of my breath back, you know. But I don’t
mind saying that I’d rather ride on a cyclone than this contrivance.
And my feet are like snowballs!”
“So are mine,” echoed Dick. “And all the rest of me. But let’s ask ’em
to race, Carl.”
The other yacht, which when first sighted had been a long distance up
the river, was now but a short way ahead, and was almost motionless,
nose into the wind, as though awaiting the arrival of The Sleet. While
the latter boat was still an eighth of a mile distant a form sprang
into view on the yacht ahead and a hand waved in challenge. Carl
steadied himself on his knees and waved back.
“We’ll race you!” he bawled.
An answering gesture showed that he had been heard, and the figure
disappeared. In another moment the two yachts were abreast, and
the stranger swung about and took the wind. She had two persons
aboard, a man and a woman, both so wrapped from the weather as to be
scarcely distinguishable. She was a much larger boat than The Sleet,
sloop-rigged, with immaculate white sails and without side-timbers.
She wore no paint, but her woodwork was varnished until it shone.
Altogether there was scarcely any comparison between the two yachts, so
immeasurably superior was the sloop in every detail.
The Sleet meanwhile had gained an eighth of a mile, perhaps, ere the
stranger had found the wind, but now the latter came booming after
them at a spanking gait, her big sails as stiff as though frozen. Carl
grinned.
“It’ll be a mighty short race, my boys. She can sail all around this
little triangle. But we’ll give her a go, just the same.” He brought
The Sleet closer to the wind, and then began a series of long tacks
that sent the boat fairly flying over the ice. But the stranger was
already at the same tactics, and ere a mile had passed was abreast of
The Sleet, though at the other side of the river, and her crew were
waving derisively across.
“Well, if we had as much sail as you have,” growled Carl, “we might be
in your class; as it is, we aren’t. But The Sleet is a good goer, all
the same.”
The other boat stood across into the middle of the river, and then, as
though her former efforts had been but the merest dawdling, bounded
away, and was soon but a small white speck far up the ice in the haze.
“Let’s turn back now,” suggested Dick. “It must be getting toward
half-past five, and you must remember that we won’t be able to make as
fast time going down the river as we have coming up.”
“All right, we’ll turn in a minute.”
And then Carl, whose knowledge of ice-yachting was derived from the
hurried perusal of a library book on the subject, cudgeled his brains
to recollect how to “go about.” Of course, he might lower the sail and
then bring her around, but that would be a most clumsy, unsportsmanlike
method, and so not to be seriously considered. Presumably, the thing to
do was to luff.
“Stand by to luff!” he bawled. Dick and Trevor stared.
“Stand!” cried Trevor indignantly. “Why, I can’t stand, you idiot. It’s
all I can do to hold on as it is!”
“Well, look out for the boom, then. I’m going to bring her about.”
“Who?” asked Trevor innocently. But he got no answer, and the next
instant he had forgotten his question, for Carl had thrust the helm
hard over without first ascertaining that the sheet was clear. It
wasn’t. The result was startling. The wind struck the sail full, and
the yacht swung violently to port, tilted almost onto her beam ends.
Carl and Trevor went rapidly through space and brought up on the ice
yards and yards away, happily uninjured save for minor bruises and
scratches, and The Sleet, righting herself, bounded forward with Dick
clutching desperately, dazedly, at the port runner-beam.
When the shock had come Dick, like the others, had been thrown from
the cockpit, but, by good luck or bad, had encountered the end of the
cross-timber, just over the runner, and had seized it and clung to it
with no very clear idea as to what it was, and not greatly caring. And
now, when he opened his eyes and gazed confusedly about, he found the
yacht ringing merrily over the ice and, judging by the feeling, kicking
up her heels in delight, and found himself wrapped convulsively about
the beam with the wind whistling madly in his ears and blowing his
hair helter-skelter, for in his flight through air his cap and he had
parted company. He cast a look backward and thought that for an instant
he could discern in the gathering darkness two figures. Near at hand
the stays ran to the masthead, and he edged himself toward them until
he could grasp one in his numbed fingers. Then he was able to gain the
support of the mast, somewhat painfully, for he found that his shoulder
ached horribly, and that his lip had been cut and was swelling to
disconcerting size. By means of the boom, which was swinging agitatedly
as though constantly meditating a veer to the other side, he reached
the cockpit, and there, stretched once more at length, he studied the
situation.
Apparently, there was no immediate danger; the yacht was heading fairly
straight up the middle of the river, and although now and then the
stern slid this way or that, she was behaving well. But the imperative
thing was to stop. Dick tried to undo a rope that looked promising, but
his fingers were numb and stiff, despite the woolen gloves that covered
them, and refused to act. He peered ahead into the descending darkness.
The shore to the left was getting rather too near for comfort, and he
seized the tiller, and, half fearful of the result, swung it to the
right, with the startling result that the yacht headed more directly
toward the threatening shore. Desperately he moved the tiller to
the left, and gave a sigh of relief as the boat’s nose swung toward
midstream. Encouraged by his success he presently moved the helm back a
little, and with the yacht’s head pointing a middle course, again tried
to think of some means of bringing his unwelcome voyage to an end. He
knew nothing, practically, of yachting on either water or ice, but
he knew that if he could get the sail down the boat would eventually
stop. Painfully he drew off a glove and sought his pocket-knife. It
was not there. He tried all his pockets with the same disappointing
result. Then he drew his glove back over his deadened hand, and
thought desperately of jumping off and letting The Sleet look after
herself. But the prospect of being dashed across the ice at the risk of
a broken limb didn’t appeal to him; and besides, he felt in a measure
responsible for the safe return of the confounded boat.
“Stand by the ship!” he muttered with an attempt at a grin.
[Illustration: “Stand by the ship!” he muttered.]
The wind seemed now to be decreasing in force, but The Sleet still
charged away into the gathering blackness with breathless speed. At a
loss for any better solution, Dick struggled again at the rope, and it
seemed that success was about to reward his efforts when there was a
sudden jar, followed a second later by a strange sinking sensation, the
sound of breaking ice, and then Dick felt the cockpit being lifted up
and up, and ere he could grasp anything he was rolled over the edge and
plunged downward into icy water.